


we laugh, we fumble, we take it day by day

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1970s era, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Moustache (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, i think this is the softest thing i've ever written, this is a Tony fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: Aziraphale is standing behind him, warm and relaxed and still waking up, unused to sleeping through the night. He is open and affectionate, muddled in contentment, and Crowley is no different. He feels like he’s basking in the sun; boneless, weightless, easy. They are both moving like they’re swimming; like they’re floating; like they had an absolutelyfantasticshag the night before.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 130
Collections: Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	we laugh, we fumble, we take it day by day

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was born from me thinking 'hey what if M25 presentation crowley was all giddy and dorky and Like That because he got laid the night before?'
> 
> thanks to elizabethelizabeth for being my beta! and thanks to them and MovesLikeBucky for the cheerleading~

Crowley carefully rolls his neck, eases out the tension, lets it crack. He breathes deep and reaches his hands over his head, pushing into a deeply satisfying full-body stretch. There’s a puff of air behind him, and Crowley tilts his head back from where he’s seated in front of the vanity’s mirror to find a softly amused Aziraphale staring back at him, albeit upside down. He grins.

Aziraphale is standing behind him, warm and relaxed and still waking up, unused to sleeping through the night. He is open and affectionate, muddled in contentment, and Crowley is no different. He feels like he’s basking in the sun; boneless, weightless, easy. They are both moving like they’re swimming; like they’re floating; like they had an absolutely  _ fantastic _ shag the night before. 

Crowley leans back into the chair, all liquid spine and loose limbs, and sinks into a sprawl, legs falling open precisely so he can feel the slight pull of soreness still lingering. He tips his head back and smirks up at Aziraphale, inviting and devilish. Aziraphale smiles and Crowley sees how his eyes roam down the line of Crowley’s body, taking in the gaping collar of his shirt, the long stretch of his legs in tight trousers. Aziraphale’s eyes darken just a shade, clearly remembering last night, and Crowley feels a little smug. 

There had been alcohol that had kicked it off, but not so much that they didn't know what they were doing. Everything had been a pleasant sort of heated, fuzzy and comfortable. It was two beings who had known each other for six thousand years, knew each other in just about every way, and were learning the last few ways they didn’t. It was a welcoming kind of thrill, butterflies, bubbles, an updraft under the wings. The usual tight and twisting thing that lived in Crowley’s ribs had been torn down, no longer a monument to his misery, but rebuilt into something new and sweet and sparkling. 

Crowley thinks about falling into bed with Aziraphale, about flying apart, about letting go. It had been a beautiful total surrender beneath Aziraphale’s hands. Crowley feels lighter than he has since before he Fell, feels high and drunk and dizzy on a love so filling, so  _ fulfilling _ , he wants to vibrate right out of his corporation, this human form far too confining for a joy so incandescent. Because it's not just Crowley’s love here, that's been around nearly as long as the earth, it's not just him: it's that he’s been reaching out and Aziraphale has finally reached back. He cannot, could never, fault Aziraphale for the time it took him to get here, not with heaven breathing down his back, not with the insidious way of thinking they fill their empty halls with. It was never how long the journey took, just getting to the destination, and they’ve both arrived.

There is still the ghost of Aziraphale’s touch across Crowley’s skin. Crowley had banished most of the alcohol from his system when they fell into bed, desperate to remember every detail, one last lingering flicker of doubt that this might be his only chance. At some point, Aziraphale had snuffed it out, somewhere between a joke about Crowley’s mustache and Crowley taking him inside him erased that last bit of insecurity. But it was Aziraphale’s hands that Crowley remembers the clearest. They had been shelter, ecstasy, rebirth. They had cradled his face like something precious, pressed him into the mattress, trailed searingly over muscles and joints, pulled pleasure from his core like it was the only thing that mattered, and held him as he shattered apart. Held him and cherished him, gathered all the scattered star pieces of Crowley and put them back together with aching care into something better and stronger; openly loving, openly loved. 

The morning had dawned bright and sunny, light cutting into the bookshop bedroom from between the curtains and falling across the sheets. Crowley had blinked his eyes open, drowsy with sleep and had stared, dumbfounded, at where he was. He was in Aziraphale’s room, in Aziraphale’s bed, lying on his side facing Aziraphale. The angel was still asleep, cheek pressed into a pillow, lines creased into his skin from the fabric, face slack and relaxed. There is barely a few inches between them, to the point that Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s breath when he exhales, and their legs are tangled together. The light pouring in from outside hits the edges of Aziraphale and makes him glow, and everything feels surreal. Crowley remembers well what they had gotten up to, had burned it into his memory, but somehow, he’s still surprised to find himself here.

Crowley lets his gaze wander over Aziraphale, following familiar planes and taking in the details he has rarely been this close to see. Every fold and crease that makes up Aziraphale is breathtaking, just for being a part of him, and Crowley is still a little in disbelief that he gets this now, that he has the permission and the privilege to call it his. Aziraphale has given him this and he wants to shout from the rooftops. Because he is watching closely, Crowley sees the exact moment Aziraphale wakes up, shoulders stirring, nose wrinkling, and his eyes opening just a crack. He sees the exact moment Aziraphale spots him, and the immediate smile that blooms in response and sends his own insides fluttering. He also sees that the glow from the light shining through the window has now strengthened significantly and is coming directly from Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes are crinkled, currently the color of a cloudless sunny sky, and though he’s only just woken up, he is radiant with happiness. Crowley lets that thunder through him, the knowledge that he was the cause, that he makes Aziraphale happy, and has to shut his eyes, overwhelmed by both the feeling and the brightness. 

Crowley almost jumps when a hand settles on his bicep, squeezing gently, and he opens one eye to look. Aziraphale has turned his glow down, but he looks no less bright, achingly honest in the morning haze. Crowley opens both eyes, to drink in the sight, to give Aziraphale his full attention like he deserves. Aziraphale slides his hand up to Crowley's jaw, cups it tenderly. His thumb brushes just under Crowley's lip, across the mustache, and Crowley watches the way his eyes dance with mirth. Aziraphale probably thinks it looks ridiculous.

"You look ridiculous." Aziraphale murmurs. 

He looks like he's biting back laughter, and the sight is so precious, Crowley can't even be annoyed at the slight against his appearance.

"It's called fashion, Aziraphale."

Crowley grumbles halfheartedly. It's hard to muster any kind of offense with Aziraphale beaming at him.

"And it's ridiculous." 

Crowley pouts.

"What, you don't like it?"

Aziraphale somehow manages to smile even wider, looking positively giddy.

"Oh no, my dear, I love it."

Crowley barks out a surprised laugh. For all that Aziraphale has already been giving him, that was still somehow entirely unexpected. Aziraphale laughs as well, reaches one arm out and lightly shoves Crowley's shoulder so he flops onto his back. Aziraphale follows him, half rolls on top of him and the press of his weight is as comforting as an embrace. Aziraphale props himself up on one elbow so he can look down at Crowley, and his gaze is openly admiring. Crowley can't help but preen. 

Aziraphale bends himself down, brings them chest to chest, brings them lips to lips. He is unhurried and relaxed, a little lazy and a lot of sweetness, as he kisses Crowley like it's all he has to do for the day.

Unfortunately, for as much as Crowley wants this to actually be all they have to do for the day, he has actual business to attend to. There’s a meeting in Hell that he absolutely has to attend, and given how little he typically has to return Downstairs, he’s expected to be there. He wants to stay here forever, caught between a soft mattress and Aziraphale, light and warm and easy. Aziraphale's mouth is eager and wanting, wanting  _ Crowley _ , and he would gladly surrender to it for the rest of his life. Crowley thinks that pulling away from it, extracting himself from this, is going to be one of the hardest things he's ever done.

In the end, it takes a fair amount of cajoling and stalling and whining on both their parts, but Aziraphale understands, having always been the one hyper-aware of the position their jobs put them in, and he understands that this is something necessary. He lets Crowley up, and they both sit upright, disheveled and languid. Crowley drags himself out of the bed, grumbling a little as he goes, and Aziraphale swings himself to plant his feet on the floor on the other side. Crowley watches as Aziraphale stretches, blinking blearily, and openly stares, grinning, because it’s an absolute delight to witness the aftermath of one of Aziraphale’s first full nights of sleep. 

Aziraphale catches him looking, and his eyes crinkle fondly, and Crowley feels it like a shot straight to the heart. They could sit there staring at each other forever, but eventually, they have to move. Aziraphale stands and sweeps out of the room, mumbling something about starting the kettle, and Crowley sets about getting dressed.

Crowley shuffles around, trying to see where all his clothes ended up in their enthusiasm, and feeling a little baffled but mostly amused at the places he finds them. His pants are on the bedroom floor, his trousers near the door, his socks outside in the hall, and he winds up following a trail back downstairs to the shop. He picks up his shoes from the stairs, and eventually finds his belt, his shirt, his jacket, and his glasses. He snatches up the articles of Aziraphale's outfit that he spots as well, grinning broadly at the clear evidence of their activities. He could have miracled all the clothes back, but it was far more fun to see where everything had landed. There's something delightful about having an armful of both his and Aziraphale's discarded clothes, especially knowing how fussy the angel could be with his things, and it makes something buoyant and bright fill Crowley's chest. He takes the stairs back up two at a time, not wanting to be apart from Aziraphale while he still has some time to linger. 

Crowley dumps the clothes on the bed, hears Aziraphale futzing about in the kitchen, and starts pulling on clothes. He’s just shimmying into his trousers when Aziraphale glides into the room, wearing only a loosely-belted dressing gown. Crowley freezes, staring at the exposed forearms, the flash of thigh, the peek of collarbones and chest hair from where the gown overlaps in front. Somehow, despite having seen Aziraphale fully nude both in the night and that morning, his current state of dress was almost even more tantalizing. Aziraphale smirks a little, the bastard, and tilts his head invitingly. 

“I made coffee.”

He promptly sweeps back out of the room, leaving Crowley to stand there half-dressed, mouth hanging open and brain offline for a good two minutes before he snaps out of it. He shucks on the rest of his clothes and nearly runs to the kitchen, sliding on the floor a little and catching himself on the counter. Aziraphale is sitting at the table, definitely biting back laughter behind the rim of his mug. Crowley glares and flings himself down in the chair opposite, where a fresh cup of coffee is already sitting. He takes a gulp from it without a second thought and finds the temperature is already reduced enough to not scald his tongue and its been sweetened precisely the way he likes it. He promptly swallows down half of it. A quick glance at Aziraphale shows the angel with his mug suspended halfway to his mouth, eyeing him with a look somewhere between exasperation and adoration.

Crowley shoots him his most charming and innocent smile, but goes to simply sipping at the remainder of the coffee placatingly. Aziraphale snorts and reaches for the plate between them, plucking a croissant from the selection and tearing it in half. He brings one half to his own mouth and holds the other out to Crowley. Crowley can’t help the way he smiles as he takes it, the contentment growing like ivy inside him, up and around and everywhere. The sheer domesticity of it, that he can have such a thing with Aziraphale. That it’s real, that it’s here in this cluttered kitchen with its worn wood table and old-fashioned wallpaper, that he’s bumping knees with Aziraphale and Aziraphale made him coffee and shared his pastry. Crowley thinks he could never be this happy again.

When the pastry is consumed and beverages finished, they both stand; Crowley unfolds himself from his chair and absently glances down at his shirt as he straightens it. When he looks back up, Aziraphale is in front of him, hands reaching up to touch lightly at his face. Just the barest brush over his cheeks, the pads of Aziraphale’s fingers, making Crowley shiver. They land at his upper lip, trail into the mustache, and Aziraphale makes a gentle swiping motion, brushing through the hair. Crowley exhales sharply into the space between them, feels the edges of his mustache tremble from it, stares at Aziraphale and the way he still has his hands on Crowley’s face. 

“There you are, dear, you had some crumbs.” 

Aziraphale whispers the words, even though he doesn't need to, even though they are alone and in private. The kitchen is silent, even the ambient noise of outside is dimmed, as though this small room is giving them a moment, them and the shining bright newness of something tangible between them. Aziraphale’s words are low and quiet, but they drop like rocks into still water, rippling outwards. It’s the intimacy of it, Crowley thinks, the way that Aziraphale can reach out for something simple like crumbs on his face, can let his touch linger, can keep standing in the kitchen in a dressing gown after a night together, gazing at Crowley openly with enough love to drown cities. It is breathtaking in its simplicity. It is sublime in its vastness. 

Eventually, they leave the kitchen, and Crowley finds himself in front of a vanity ( of course, Aziraphale has a vanity) sitting in the chair while Aziraphale hovers behind him. When he stretches and sprawls and looks up and back at Aziraphale, he thinks of the heat of the night before, the warmth of this morning. He thinks of sunbeams and fire in a hearth. He thinks of safety. He thinks of rest. 

Crowley stares up at Aziraphale and takes in the smile, the twinkle in his eyes, the soft glow around him. Maybe it used to be that Aziraphale kept the distance between them, that they were hereditary enemies and opposite sides. Maybe Crowley was too fast, too soon, and he had been willing to wait or slow down or stop entirely, but maybe that's all changed. Aziraphale seems to have made up his mind now, determined to match Crowley, and nearly outpacing him in the process. They tumbled into a kiss, into bed, into something bigger and brighter than anything they had had in 6000 years. Crowley is still a little hesitant to claim this as his, but he looks at Aziraphale now, standing above him and staring back with (and it can't be anything else) so much love. Aziraphale is radiating, had been all night and all morning, one blazing message, over and over again:  _ home, home, you're home _ . Crowley has never known welcome like this before. For so long, he had been running; towards, between, away. And for the first time, he thinks about staying.

Crowley closes his eyes, head still tilted back. He does not know what to do with these high-tide feelings, these broken floodgates in his heart. It's easier, right now, to try and let it be, to let it settle in, and maybe they'll be okay. Maybe Aziraphale can stop Crowley from getting swept out to sea, because Aziraphale has made it clear he wants this and wants them to move forward together. Crowley wants. Crowley has always wanted.

There is a hand in his hair, threading through the strands just lightly at first, but when Crowley leans into the touch, it becomes more firm. His eyes are still closed, and Crowley thinks he would purr if he could. Aziraphale is running his fingers down the shoulder-length tresses, untangling knots and smoothing out the messy parts. It is soothing and intimate and more softness than Crowley has ever known. He’s dreamed of Aziraphale’s touch for centuries, but it was never like this. Crowley feels a different kind of pull in his hair and realizes Aziraphale has picked up a brush, the bristles helping to undo the last of the mess from overnight. Aziraphale falls into an easy rhythm, thorough and achingly gentle, and Crowley thinks his dreams could never match reality now. 

Aziraphale takes his time with the brush, only setting it aside when his standards are met, whatever they are, and he gathers all of Crowley’s hair at his neck, digs his hands into the locks and fluffs it out. Crowley watches in the vanity’s mirror, the way Aziraphale is focused on his task, a flash of pink tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, and there’s a feeling swelling inside his chest that is far too big for its confines. Because Aziraphale looks so damn  _ happy _ in this moment, and Crowley feels it echoing back, all the way down to his toes. It takes him a moment to find his voice, past the sudden lump in his throat. 

“You don’t need to fuss that much, you know? S’not a big deal, my hair.”

Aziraphale pauses and looks up to catch Crowley’s eyes in the mirror. 

“Perhaps,” He murmurs, “But if it’s alright, I’d  _ like _ to fuss over you, because I can. Because I want to.”

Even in a reflection, those blue eyes are piercing, and Crowley can’t help surrendering to them, as always.

“Of course, angel. You can do whatever you want to me.”

Aziraphale’s lips quirk at that, and there’s a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“Well in that case…”

There’s a slight tug on his hair, and Crowley finds himself tilting back, looking at Aziraphale upside down for just a second, before Aziraphale leans down and quite thoroughly snogs him senseless. They break a minute or maybe ten later, and Crowley is dizzy and breathless, staring up at Aziraphale in wonder, who stands over him flushed and looking pleased.

“It’s the mustache, isn’t it?” Crowley puffs out in a daze, the only thing he can manage to say.

“Hmm?”

“The mustache,” Crowley mutters, gesturing vaguely at his face. “It’s very sexy.”

There’s a long pause before Aziraphale answers. 

“Of course, dear, that’s it exactly.”

The sarcastic tone is what snaps Crowley out of it, and he pouts up at Aziraphale. 

“I told you, it’s the fashion these days."

“I’m sure it is.”

“Don’t patronize me, Aziraphale.” 

“My dear, I would never.”

Crowley huffs and reaches up, tugs the bastard back down, intent on kissing the grin off his face. Aziraphale only grins harder into the kiss, and really, how is that fair. Crowley pulls back just so he can swing himself around, rise up on one knee on the chair, to properly get at Aziraphale’s mouth. They kiss at an unhurried pace, calm and sweet, a slow build between them. Crowley trails kisses down Aziraphale’s jaw, to his neck, nips at the skin, and Aziraphale hums low and pleased in his ear.

"Careful dear, I'm supposed to be helping you put yourself together. Keep going like that, and I'm going to take you apart."

"Is that a promise?"

Aziraphale laughs.

“Later, my love. We have time.”

The endearment falls so easily from Aziraphale’s tongue, that even though he's never used it before, it feels as familiar as sinking into the sofa downstairs. Crowley tilts his head so he can rest his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder, brings his arms up around the angel's back, squeezes once, and just holds him. Aziraphale brings his arms up as well, wraps one around Crowley's shoulders, the other at his waist. They stand there, just like that, nothing more than an embrace, with no expectation of more. Crowley knows Aziraphale loves him, that he loves kissing him and touching him and making love, but that they could stand here like this until the end of time, and Aziraphale would be just as happy with that. It's so simple to be with Aziraphale, and Crowley had never expected he would get such a thing, that it would be this easy. He is so in love it should hurt, but it's the least painful thing in the world.

It takes some time, a little more dawdling, a little getting distracted, but eventually Crowley is at the front door, ready to head out. He slides on his jacket, and Aziraphale steps forward to smooth down the lapels, tuck his hair behind his ear, run a thumb over the corner of his mustache. All these little gestures, so utterly minor but so full of care. Aziraphale produces Crowley's glasses, unfolds the arms, and gently slides them into place. He gives Crowley a once over, now that he's fully put together, eyes gleaming appreciatively, and he smiles as bright as sunlight on water. 

Aziraphale kisses him, quick and chaste, as he goes through the door, and stands in the threshold when Crowley turns back at the bottom of the steps. He is soft and loving and warm, and not trying to hide it in the least, and it's so far from how they used to be, it's almost jarring. There had been so much dancing around each other, keeping distance and words unsaid, hurting and hurting each other, but now, here, this, this is the end of a very long journey and the start of a far happier new one. Aziraphale smiles down from the doorway, and it's a wing over Crowley's head all over again.

"Don't be too late coming home, dear."

_ Home _ . The word punches right to the heart of Crowley, the weight, the impact. A home is more than a shared space, it's a shared life, and Aziraphale is holding it out to him, no strings attached. Aziraphale has always been the home Crowley wanted, but now the angel is offering that very thing freely, and Crowley isn't quite sure how to handle suddenly having everything he's been aching for. He stares up at Aziraphale, standing in an open door, and thinks, oh this is it.

"Yeah," Crowley says breathlessly. "Yeah, I shouldn't be too long."

Aziraphale beams and waves him off, watches as Crowley slides into the Bentley, and stays there until Crowley is out of sight. Home. What a notion. What a gift.

=

Crowley is far too joyful, too brimming with love, overflowing with satisfaction from the night before and anticipation of all that's to come to fully contain his good mood. Not Hell's dreadful atmosphere, not bored and annoying coworkers, not anything could bring that down. He presents his plan, beaming at the clever scheming of it all and can't help the way his own giddiness bubbles up and spills over. He gives a lopsided grin at his unenthusiastic audience.

"Can I hear a 'wahoo'?"


End file.
